The drugs. He needed the drugs.
The clinic waiting room was nearly full. He willed the other patients away. The doctor had to see him now.
Now!
An intercom buzzed at the desk.
“Mrs. Gestau?” said the receptionist, looking down the list of patients. “Dr. Nudstrumov will see you now.”
A middle-aged woman sitting near him got up. She walked as close to the opposite wall as possible, clearly sensing his displeasure that she had been called ahead of him.
He waited a few more seconds. They seemed like hours. He had to do something. He leaned forward — then got up, practically rolling into motion.
“When am I going in?” he said to the woman at the desk.
“The doctor is very busy today. But I’m sure as soon as—”
He didn’t need to hear the rest. He stepped to his left and pushed through the door. The hallway seemed darker than normal, the walls closer together. Very close — they seemed to push against his shoulders as he strode toward the doctor’s office at the end of the hall.
“Wait!” the receptionist called behind him. “Wait — you can’t just barge in here. Wait!”
Her voice fell back into a deep pit far behind him. He stopped at the first examining room, threw open the door. A man in his sixties sat on the examining table in his underwear, feet dangling off the side.
The doctor wasn’t there. He turned and walked to the next room.
“Stop!” said a nurse. “What are you doing?”
“It’s OK,” said Dr. Nudstrumov, appearing at the end of the hall. “I was just going to send for Herr Schmidt.”
“The examining rooms are full,” said the receptionist.
“Herr Schmidt and I can use my office.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Herr Schmidt, please,” said the doctor, extending his arm. “So good to see you today.”
He walked into the office. Without waiting for an invitation, he pulled off his shirt.
“You’re shaking,” said the doctor, closing the door behind him. “It’s getting worse.”
“Give it to me,” he said tightly.
“A year ago you only needed the shots every six months. Now it is every six weeks.”
“I don’t care to hear my entire medical history.”
“I suppose not.”
The doctor took a stethoscope from the pocket of his lab coat. The coat seemed almost gray, though he knew that the doctor habitually wore them bright and freshly starched.
“My heart is fine.”
“I’m listening to your lungs,” said Dr. Nudstrumov, an edge creeping into his voice. He was in his sixties, short and bald. He’d gained a considerable amount of weight in the decade and a half since they had known each other, to the point that he was now fat, rather than skinny.
But that was the least of the changes. He’d gone through several different names, so many that even the Black Wolf didn’t know which was real. He even used “corporate” names — common aliases that were supposed to belong only to the Wolves.
“Breathe, please.”
He took a deep breath and held it.
“Again… one more time.”
“Enough with the damn breathing!” he yelled, slapping the doctor’s stethoscope away. “Give me the shots!”
The doctor stepped back, surprised, frightened.
Where did the bastard keep the drugs? He could get them himself.
He needed the serum, and the pills. The pills were for every day; the injections lasted longer.
There were other doctors who would supply him; he knew there were. It was only because of the perverse machinations of the Directors that he had to come to Nudstrumov.
A reminder of who was in control. As if he needed one.
Dr. Nudstrumov stepped over to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. He placed a metal case on the top of his desk and opened it. There were three hypodermic needles inside.
“Roll up your sleeve, please,” he said, taking one of the needles.
There was a knock on the door.
“Everything is fine,” said the doctor. “Please see to the patients.”
“Doctor?” said one of the nurses.
“It’s fine. Please see to the patients.”
The doctor took a small antiseptic wipe and cleaned a spot on his arm. A second later the long, thick needle plunged through his skin.
Warmth began spreading through his body immediately. By the time the third shot had been administered, he was back to his old self.
Not his old, old self, whatever that was. Back to what passed for normal now.
The doctor said nothing for a few minutes, returning the needles to the box, then tossing his gloves into a waste can at the side of the room.
“Do you think about the changes?” the doctor asked, sitting down.
“I don’t think at all.”
“The progression. It’s a downward slope. There’s going to come a point…”
Dr. Nudstrumov’s voice trailed off. He stared at the man he knew by many names, though he called him only Herr Schmidt.
“Do you shake when you take the pills?” the doctor asked finally.
“They have no effect.”
“I’m going to give you something to calm the shakes, and the pain.” Dr. Nudstrumov pulled over his prescription pad. “It’s not — it won’t have the effect on your metabolism that the shots have. It won’t restore you. But when you feel things getting bad, you can have some relief. It’s a sedative. You should be careful driving.”
He took the prescription without comment.
“I remember that first week,” said the doctor, his voice tinged with nostalgia and pride. “How we had to fight to keep you alive.”
“I don’t appreciate your sentimentality,” said the Black Wolf, rising and striding toward the door.
12
Nuri had barely enough time to pull out the mace as the dog charged into the room, saliva lathering from its mouth. His fingers were misaligned and much of the spray shot sideways. The dog’s teeth clamped around his left arm.
Nuri sprayed again, then smacked the dog in the snout. The animal let go, howling.
Off balance, he grabbed at the animal and fell to the side, tumbling against an upholstered chair. He reached into the fanny pack for one of the syringes. The dog tried to push itself away, snarling and shaking its head, crying, disoriented, and hurting at the same time.
It was a large mastiff. More pet than watchdog, it lacked a true killer’s instinct — fortunately for him. He grabbed a syringe, pulled the plastic guard off with his teeth and plunged the needle into the animal’s rump.
It whimpered, then crumpled over on its side.
Nuri swung his legs under him and grabbed for his pistol, sure the commotion would bring one of the mafia don’s guards in any second. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat.
He heard something squeaking behind him. He spun quickly before realizing the noise was coming from the earphone, which had fallen out.
No one was coming, or if they were, they were taking their time.
“What’s going on?” hissed Flash.
“I’m OK,” said Nuri.
“What happened? I heard you grunting.”
“There was a dog.”
“MY-PID didn’t say anything about it.”
“Are you looking at the image?”
“This screen is so small — I can see it now.”
“Tell the computer it has to scan for dogs — for anything living,” said Nuri, realizing he’d been too precise when he gave it the earlier instructions. “It’s only looking for people.”
“Shit.”
Nuri looked down. As powerful as the gear aboard the Reaper was, it had its limits.